INDEX MUSICA
AQUALUNG - JETHRO TULL

 

Jetrho Tull - Aqualung (1971)

 

Gruppo/Artista: Jethro Tull  
Anno: 1971, 30 marzo  
Etichetta: Chrysalis  
Durata: 43:27  
Produzione: Ian Anderson & Terry Ellis  
Componenti del gruppo: Nome Ruolo/Strumento
  Ian Anderson flauto, chitarra acustica e voce
  Clive Bunker batteria e percussioni
  Martin Barre chitarra elettrica e DESCANT RECORDER
  John Evan piano, organo, MELLOTRON
  Jeffrey Hammond basso, ALTO RECORDER e ODD voci
Canzoni: Titolo Durata Note
  Aqualung 6:35 Scritta da Jennie Anderson
  Crossed-Eyed Mary 4:10  
  Cheap Day Return 1:22  
  Mother Goose 3:55  
  Wond'ring Aloud 1:55  
  Up To Me 3:15  
  My God 7:10  
  Hymn 43 3:20  
  Slipstream 1:10  
  Locomotive Breath 4:30  
  Wind-Up 6:05  
Note:  

Recorded at Island Studios, London.
Engineer: John Burns
Orchestra arranged and conducted by David Palmer
Paintings by Burton Silverman
Layout by CCS

Di quest'album ho un vinile con i seguenti riferimenti:
JETHRO TULL - AQUALUNG
Codice: 6307 515
Etichetta: Chrysalis

Made in Italy

 

 

Testi


Aqualung

(Jennie Anderson)

Aqualung
Sitting on a park bench
eyeing little girls with bad intent.
Snot running down his nose, greasy fingers smearing shabby clothes.
Hey, Aqualung...
Drying in the cold sun,
watching as the frilly panties run.
Hey, Aqualung...
Feeling like a dead duck
spitting out pieces of his broken luck.
Oh, Aqualung...
Sun streaking cold
an old man wandering lonely.
Taking time the only way he knows.
Leg hurting bad,
as he bends to pick a dog-end.
He goes down to the bog and warms his feet.
Feeling alone; the army's up the road,
salvation a la mode and a cup of tea.
Aqualung, my friend, don't you start away uneasy.
You poor old sod, you see, it's only me.

Do you still remember December's foggy freeze,
when the ice that clings on to your beard is screaming agony?
And you snatch your rattling last breaths
with deep-sea-diver sounds,
and the flowers bloom like madness in the spring.

Sun streaking cold
an old man wandering lonely.
Taking time the only way he knows.
Leg hurting bad,
as he bends to pick a dog-end.
He goes down to the bog and warms his feet.
Feeling alone; the army's up the road,
salvation a la mode and a cup of tea.
Aqualung, my friend, don't you start away uneasy.
You poor old sod, you see, it's only me.

Aqualung, my friend, don't you start away uneasy.
You poor old sod, you see, it's only me.

 


Cross-Eyed Mary
(Ian Anderson)

Who would be a poor man, a beggarman, a thief,
if he had a rich man in his hand?
And who would steal the candy from a laughing baby's mouth
if he could take it from the money man?

Cross-eyed Mary goes jumping in again.
She signs no contract,
but she always plays the game.
Dines in Hampstead village on expense accounted gruel,
and the jack-knife barber drops her off at school.

Laughing in the playground, gets no kicks from little boys;
would rather make it with a letching grey.
Or maybe her attention is drawn by Aqualung,
who watches through the railings as they play.

Cross-eyed Mary finds it hard to get along.
She's a poor man's rich girl
and she'll do it for a song.
She's a rich man stealer
but her favour's good and strong.
She's the Robin Hood of Highgate,
helps the poor man get along.

Laughing in the playground, gets no kicks from little boys;
would rather make it with a letching grey.
Or maybe her attention is drawn by Aqualung,
who watches through the railings as they play.

Cross-eyed Mary goes jumping in again.
She signs no contract,
but she always plays the game.
Dines in Hampstead village on expense accounted gruel,
and the jack-knife barber drops her off at school.

Cross-eyed Mary...
Oh, Mary...
Cross-eyed Mary...

 


Cheap Day Return

(Ian Anderson)

On Preston platform do your soft shoe shuffle dance.
Brush away the cigarette ash that's falling down your pants.
And then you sadly wonder does the nurse treat your old man
the way she should.
She made you tea, asked for your autograph -
what a laugh.

 


Mother Goose
(Ian Anderson)

As I did walk by Hampstead Fair
I came upon Mother Goose so I turned her loose -
she was screaming.
And a foreign student said to me,
was it really true there are elephants and lions, too
in Piccadilly Circus?

Walked down by the bathing pond to try and catch some sun.
Saw at least a hundred schoolgirls sobbing into hankerchiefs as one.
I don't believe they knew I was a schoolboy.

And a bearded lady said to me,
"If you start your raving and your misbehaving,
you'll be sorry."

Then the chicken-fancier came to play
with his long red beard (and his sister's weird:
she drives a lorry).
Laughed down by the putting green; I popped `em in their holes.
Four and twenty labourers were labouring , digging up their gold.
I don't believe they knew that I was Long John Silver.

Saw Johnny Scarecrow make his rounds
in his jet-black mac (which he won't give back) -
stole it from a snow man.

As I did walk by Hampstead Fair
I came upon Mother Goose so I turned her loose -
she was screaming.

Walked down by the bathing pond to try and catch some sun.
Saw at least a hundred schoolgirls sobbing into hankerchiefs as one.
I don't believe they knew I was a schoolboy.

 


Wond'ring Aloud
(Ian Anderson)

Wond'ring aloud
how we feel today.
Last night sipped the sunset,
my hands in her hair.
We are our own saviours as we start both our hearts beating life
into each other.

Wond'ring aloud...
Will the years treat us well?
As she floats in the kitchen, I'm tasting the smell
of toast as the butter runs. Then she comes, spilling crumbs on the bed
and I shake my head.

And it's only the giving that makes you
what you are.

 


Up To Me

(Ian Anderson)

Take you to the cinema and leave you in a Wimpy Bar.
You tell me that we've gone to far,
come running up to me.
Make the scene at Cousin Jack's,
leave him put the bottles back,
mends his glasses that I cracked,
well, that one's up to me.
Hey. Oh, it's up to me.
It's up to me.

Buy a silver cloud to ride,
pack the tennis club inside,
trouser cuffs hung far too wide,
well, it was up to me.
Tyres down on your bicycle,
your nose feels like an icicle,
the yellow-fingered smoky girl
is looking up to me.

Well, I'm a common working man,
with a half of bitter, bread and jam,
and if it pleases me I'll put one on you, man
when the copper fades away.
Oh, it's up to me...
Oh, I said it's up to me.

The rainy season comes to pass,
the day-glo pirate sinks at last,
and if I laughed a bit to fast,
well it was up to me.

Take you to the cinema and leave you in a Wimpy Bar.
You tell me that we've gone to far,
come running up to me.

 


My God

(Ian Anderson)

People, what have you done?
Locked Him in His golden cage.
Made Him bend to your religion.
Him resurrected from the grave,
from the grave.
He is the god of nothing
if that's all that you can see.
You are the god of everything
He's inside you and me.

So lean upon Him gently
and don't call on Him to save
you from your social graces
and the sins you used to waive
you used to waive.
The bloody Church of England, in chains of history,
requests your earthly presence at the vicarage for tea.

And the graven image you-know-who,
with His plastic crucifix
he's got him fixed
confuses me as to who and where and why
as to how he gets his kicks.
Confessing to the endless sin,
the endless whining sounds.
You'll be praying till next Thursday to all the gods that you can count.

 


Hymn 43

(Ian Anderson)

Oh father high in heaven smile down upon your son, yeah
who's busy with his money games, his women and his gun.
Oh Jesus save me!

And the unsung Western hero, he killed an Indian or three
and made his name in Hollywood
to set the white man free.
Oh Jesus save me!

If Jesus saves, well, He'd better save Himself
from the gory glory seekers who use His name in death.
Oh Jesus save me!

If Jesus saves, well, He'd better save Himself
from the gory glory seekers who use His name in death.
Oh Jesus save me!

Well, I saw him in the city, and on the mountains of the moon.
His cross was rather bloody,
Oh, He could hardly roll His stone.
Oh Jesus save me!

 


Slipstream

(Ian Anderson)

Well, the lush separation enfolds you,
and the products of wealth
push you along on the bow wave
of the spiritless undying selves.
And you press on God's waiter your last dime,
as he hands you the bill.
And you spin in the slipstream
tideless, unreasoning -
paddle right out of the mess.
And you paddle right out of the mess.

 


Locomotive Breath

(Ian Anderson)

In the shuffling madess of the locomotive breath,
runs the all-time loser, headlong to his death.
Oh, he feels the piston scraping -
steam breaking on his brow.
Old Charlie stole the handle and the train won't stop going -
no way to slow down.

He sees his children jumping off
at the stations -- one by one.
His woman and his best friend, in bed and having fun.
Oh, he's crawling down the corridor
on his hands and knees,
Old Charlie stole the handle and the train it won't stop going -

He hears the silence howling, catches angels as they fall.
And the all-time winner has got him by the balls.
Oh, he picks up Gideon's Bible, open at page one.
Oh, Old Charlie stole the handle and the train won't stop going -
no way to slow down.
No way to slow down.
No way to slow down.
No way to slow down.
No way to slow down.
No way to slow down.

 


Wind Up
(Ian Anderson)

When I was young and they packed me off to school
and they taught me how not to play the game,
I didn't mind if they groomed me for success,
or if they said that I was a fool.
So I left there in the morning
with their God tucked underneath my arm
their half-assed smiles and the book of rules.
And I asked this God a question
and by way of firm reply
He said, "I'm not the kind you have to wind up on Sundays."
So to my old headmaster (and to anyone who cares):
Before I'm through I'd like to say my prayers.
I don't believe you; you had the whole damn thing all wrong.
He's not the kind you have to wind up on Sundays.
Well, you can excomunicate me on my way to Sunday school,
and have all the bishops harmonize these lines.

How do you dare tell me that I'm my Father's son,
when that was just an accident of Birth?
I'd rather look around me, compose a better song,
'cos that's the honest measure of my worth.
In your pomp and all your glory,you're a poorer man than me,
as you lick the boots of death born out of fear.

When I was young and they packed me off to school
and they taught me how not to play the game,
I didn't mind if they groomed me for success,
or if they said that I was just a fool.
So I left there in the morning
with their God tucked underneath my arm
their half-assed smiles and the book of rules.

So to my old headmaster (and to anyone who cares):
Before I'm through I'd like to say my prayers.
Well, you can excomunicate me on my way to Sunday school,
and have all the bishops harmonize these lines.

When I was young and they packed me off to school
and they taught me how not to play the game,
I didn't mind if they groomed me for success,
or if they said that I was just a fool.
Well, you can excomunicate me on my way to Sunday school,
and have all the bishops harmonize these lines.

I don't believe you; you had the whole damn thing all wrong.
He's not the kind you have to wind up on Sundays

 

 

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Ultima modifica: 2002